Chapter One
Breathy moans filled the cavernous library. Ivy should have stopped there really. Who knew if it was desperation or curiosity that drove her forward, stepping gingerly across the wooden floor, but either way, she was entirely unprepared for the sight of two people writhing against the leather-bound books.
One bare leg hooked around the hip of a gentleman with fair hair while he pressed kisses down his companion’s neck and pressed fingers into the woman’s pale thigh. Ivy sucked in a breath, a flush of heat tearing through her.
She’d sought refuge in the library of Castle Woolchester enough times to know this couple were pressed up against a whole collection of sermons. Considering she was fairly certain the woman in question was Mrs. Von Straus—a married woman—Ivy doubted either of them cared much that their act was practically blasphemous.
The man shoved his hand higher, and the woman moaned again, tightening her grip on his neck while he fumbled with his breeches. The sight of a pale rear finally spurred Ivy into action, and she twisted sharply, ducked behind a bookshelf and pressed her back to it.
She inhaled slowly and clapped her hands over her ears as the cries increased in volume. As desperate as she might be to escape Lord Montague’s ball, the library would provide no refuge for her today.
Peering around the bookshelf for one last glance, Ivy twisted and scurried from the room, back into the bright shimmering light of hundreds of candles and lamps and the overpowering scent of perfume and floral bouquets.
The announcement of the next dance could be heard, and several women barreled past her toward the ballroom, all elbows and fluttering fans. She stepped back swiftly to avoid the stampede with a sigh. The only reason she ever attended balls was for her sisters—a show of solidarity.
Clementine and Vi’s recent marriages had lessened the harsh attitude of some of those toward the scandalous Musgraves, however, the older members of Society were not quick to forget, and Ivy caught many an icy look sent their way. She certainly did not miss the muttered insults either. As hard as she tried, it was as though her ears were attuned to such comments like a night creature listening out for a potential attacker. She did not have the ability of her sisters to breeze through life entirely unfettered by such words.
Fresh air sliced through the aroma-laden hallway, beckoning to her. She glanced at the open door at the end of the hallway. Her sisters would be busy and wouldn’t even think to look for her. They knew she’d take the chance to disappear for the evening. However, heading outside unaccompanied brought an element of risk.
She looked toward the ballroom, chatter and laughter spilling from the doorway, then she looked back to the open door where silence and stillness beckoned.
No one would notice she was gone. No one ever did. She could slink into the night like the fox she’d just rescued and while away at least an hour or so before it became too chilly. Perhaps she would even retreat to the orangery and linger there for the evening.
Ivy dashed to the door and stepped outside. The evening was cool, making the skin on her bare arms prick. It didn’t matter. Anything was better than the stuffy heat of the ballroom or the incessant chatter that made her feel as though her head might explode.
Still, she would need to head to the orangery if she wanted any chance of remaining outside and undisturbed. There, the building should be pleasantly warm but blessedly quiet for who else but her would wish to escape one of the best balls in Bath?
An amber glow shone through the long windows of the generous, square building. She paused by the pillars to peer inside and spied no movement. No writhing bodies. No groans of pleasure either. She would not forget that sight for a while.
Being a veritable wallflower did mean one came upon illicit liaisons far too often, but she had never caught anyone so close to the actual act. A shiver ran down her body, arrowing straight to her core and she shook her head in an attempt to rid herself of the memory of it. There was no sense in lingering on such images. After all, it was not like she would ever partake in such an act. No one wanted an illicit affair with the shy and plump Ivy Musgrave let alone wed her.
She inched open the door. “Anyone there?” she called.
The room answered her with silence. She let her shoulders drop and allowed a smile to curve her lips when she shut the door to be greeted by nothing.
Blissful nothing.
“That’s better.”
Installing herself upon a bench, she settled her skirts about her and took a moment to absorb the peace. Here, the music from the ballroom offered a gentle hum, unsullied by drunken laughter and talk. Huge plants towered about her, like a welcoming blanket of green, and the building instantly cradled her in warmth.
“Much, much better actually.”
Perhaps she would choose the orangery over the library in future. Even the light was slightly better. She fumbled with her skirts, lifting the hem of one layer to reveal the hidden pocket in the second then drew out her knitting.
She didn’t bother readjusting her skirts as she set her knitting on her lap. The pocket didn’t hold much but it was enough wool for her to finish a square for a blanket the perfect size for a stray fox. It had been a busy month, so her supplies were running low. Everyone around her father’s estate knew the earl’s daughter could not resist taking in an animal in need.
She froze when the door to the orangery creaked open and closed her eyes briefly. But of course it could not last. Ivy remained still, as though the gentleman slipping in might not see her on the first stone bench facing the door, knitting needles in hand.
She didn’t recognize the older man, but she knew a drunkard when she saw one. He pulled the door shut too heavily and she winced when the glass rattled. Then he turned slowly, looking her over with heavy-lidded eyes, a smile emerging on his face.
“Mrs. Talbot,” he slurred, taking three steps toward her then one step back.
“Oh no. I’m not Mrs. Talbot.”
“Mrs. Talbot,” he repeated.
She set down her knitting and lifted both hands, waving them frantically when he edged toward the bench. “Most decidedly not Mrs. Talbot, sir.”